Halo : Fire and Brimstone
by Visasmasterjedi
Summary: We are the ODST. Young Michael Crespo was raised to fend for himself, and raised to fight for what he believes in. He believes in one thing only, the safety of Humanity. So when the opportunity arises for him to take up arms against an Alien Alliance that threatens the extinction of his race - he takes it, feet first into Hell.
1. Chapter 1

**SECTION I: FOSTER**

**CHAPTER  
ONE**

0720 HOURS, JUNE 5 2541 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / SOL SYSTEM,  
WASHINGTON DISTRICT, LUNA

The ash was still clearing when Officer Barker arrived. He was an ONI man, a member of the Office of Naval Intelligence, obvious by the careful and precise stitching in his formal suit Oddly it appeared to show no ONI logo, possibly an undercover agent, Emmut decided. Not all ONI men wore suits but in a district such as Washington the most formal that people could get away with wearing was maybe a good silk shirt or patched denim jeans. If that was what the expected dress attire then Barker couldn't be undercover. Time in the Washington slums had made Emmut more aware of working-class culture, however this also restricted his skills when it came to learning. Like he, the people of Washington weren't known for their intellect. They weren't a bad people and were united in a combination of multicultural contribution. The Arts played a large part of the beauty of Washington. With Arts came wealth, wealth which would be eagerly spent on to food to feed the starving families of the seller. This wealth would be traded with the UNSC for military grade rations. All these trades took place at the UNSC Embassy within the district – or more, they once took place within the district. Now all transactions would surely cease.

It was quite a tyrannical strategy, the UNSC would cut off main food supplies to the colony with the help of Earth's Government. After raising the taxes for a few years they opened a trade exchange. Free money, the people funded the war effort. And it was easy to supply the people with food, the UNSC just sold they rations left over from the 2400s. This money ultimately helped fund the war against the Insurrection or against the Covenant. Emmut had heard all this from the townspeople. He had learned also, that not all lived in poverty and famine within Washington district. The 'Innies', as the UNSC called them, often came and left scars on the moon's colonies. But it was understandable considering the way the military had treated the civilians here. But Emmut was no Insurrectionist, he had to assure himself. This time they had gone too far. There would be no recovering from this attack.

Emmut has an officer of the law, this allowed him to push past crowds easier. This was his favourite part of the job. He had very little power, true, but it was enough to keep him satisfied. He had come in a Genet, police grade. He'd upgraded the Genet when he was stationed in Sydney Colony. There, if one was to leave their car for ten minutes out in a street a brick would indefinetly fly through the window. Upon turning you'd find a man would have broken in, hotwired the car and was already half way down the road and out of town. Sydney was hell. That incident had nearly happened to Emmut but he had hit the thief with his handgun. He pistol-whipped only once but it was enough to knock the hooligan to the ground. Emmut had never fired a gun, but no one needed to know – especially not Officer Barker.

"What have we got here?" Barker asked when Emmut had successfully pushed through the crowd men, women and children.

"Well, a bombing it appea–"

"That was rhetorical." He interrupted, rudely. "Clearly it was a bombing, the dust hasn't settled yet and there is still a hint of Propane in the air. It has cleared somewhat which suggests…" He waved his hand toward Emmut, propositioning him to finish the statement.

Emmut searched for the answer but it failed to come to him. He couldn't let this ONI man show himself the more intelligent. ONI personnel were stubborn and pompous, especially those in suits.

"…that people have driven through here?" Emmut opted. Surely that made sense. If people drive down this road often it would break up the gas particles…or something. Surely that's correct.

"Incorrect." Emmut slumped, defeated. "But don't fret, there will be plenty of opportunities to redeem yourself." There was no need for patronising. "The dust has not cleared, it is still thick. This shows that very little, of anyone, have driven down here."

Emmut wafted away the dust but it did no good. The clouds of gold were far too thick.

"The scent is fading." Barker continued. "It happened several hours ago."

Emmut had already known that, the time of the incident was recorded in the incident report. Officer Barker knew that, and he knew Emmut did too. He just wanted to appear as though he knew everything. How childish.

"Then how come dust is still here?" Emmut questioned in a tone so harsh it sounded as though he was interrogating the Officer. Barker smiled, he was getting a reaction.

"Good question." Barker turned away and faced the thicker clouds in front of him. "Considering there is no breeze on Lunr colonies there shouldn't be much of a spread of dust clouds." It was a valid point, but Emmut could rebut the observation.

"Yeah, but if it happened hours ago as you suggested it should at least spread out rather than just stay in this street." But Barker was not stunned.

Barker began to walk through the thicker clouds rendering him invisible to Emmut. Still Emmut found the snooty man leaning over a small shard of metal. The metal had blacked in some areas and was alight with a small fire.

"That _is_ the question." A question that likely he already knew the answer to. "Note this broken piece of titanium. Part of the bomb, no doubt. It's built Insurrection style. Innies often bolt small sections of titanium casing over the actual explosive. It tears apart and breaks through the propane tanks to explode."

He knows his bombs. Maybe _he's _an Innie, Emmut played.

"I know." Emmut lied. But his companion saw right through it.

"I'm sure you do." He said mockingly. The man stood, he was much closer to Emmut now and he clearly established his height by pulling his shoulders back. Just another way he showed power over Emmut. The man looked again at Emmut through his dark shades before turning and wandering further into the thick, dark clouds.

"The Propane bomb is the ideal explosive. It's quick to make and effective if you have the right materials." He arrived at a puddle of black fluid. This too was on fire. It reeked of blood and made Emmut want to gag.

Barker continued. "The ideal bomb for a UNSC trade house, no?" That was obviously rhetorical. "While effective, it is also incredibly unstable. And it appears that our two bombers failed to wire it correctly before it exploded."

"So they succeeded in destroying the embassy but accidentally died in doing so." Emmut concluded.

"Clearly." Emmut squinted, he really wanted to throw a fist at this man before him. "This is bad, the bomber will become Martyrs. They'll inspire more attacks on Government property, possibly even civil property."

"Do we have an ID on the bombers?" Emmut asked.

"Forensics have identified the remains of a man and a woman. Faces need to be further analysed. It was messy, but the bastards got what was coming to them." Barker replied.

That must have been hard. But surely there'd be nothing left of them. Especially if they were charred by Propane. Odd, he thought, that they were only burned. Propane was known as the heavy explosive, not something used to melt the target. Emmut would've suspected something else perhaps. Then the penny dropped. It had to be made from an explosive that could set fire to anything, like titanium and blood.

"You said Propane?" Emmut asked excitedly.

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"The Insurrection usually steal from the UNSC, so there are plenty of resources they could choose from." Emmut smiled, now he was owning the game. "Propane doesn't splatter or burn, it explodes. Napalm burns. The bomb was designed to burn the targets with Napalm."

Barker didn't respond, but Emmut knew he was staring at the puddle of burning blood. This time Barker didn't talk, this time _he_ was stunned.


	2. Chapter 2

**SECTION I: FOSTER**

**CHAPTER  
TWO**

2314 HOURS, JUNE 6 2541 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / SOL SYSTEM,  
WASHINGTON DISTRICT, LUNA

The boy was ten and he had been left home alone now for a day and a half now. Michael's parents had brought him up to fend for himself. They loved him and spent as much time as they coulf with him when they weren't working. They even stayed for his birthday when Michael knew that they had to go. It was his birthday two days prior. He had overheard his mother on the phone a week before his birthday. He quickly picked up another phone on the same line and listened in. Responding to his mother was the raspy voice of a sixty something year old male. He seemed kind to her, but it was clear he was annoyed by his mother's pleas to postpone her work. He loved the way his mother fought. That was what her job consisted of, fighting for what she believed in. On one occasion she had to defend herself from the flat owners back where Michael's family used to live. They could no longer pay rent there in the city and the owners proceeded to not only evict his family but run them out of town. Michael joined his parents and sought refuge in Washington.

He rolled over again in his bed and looked up at the roof before closing his eyes and being consumed by a never ending darkness. Unlike natural darkness, this one was familiar and it was his. He knew that the second he opened his eyes he'd be home. He would be rugged up in his bed back in his bedroom at his home. His room was on the top storey, the higher up the warmer it got. There were only two storeys in his house, but unlike most families his owned both.

It had become relatively clear early on that money was still required in order to live (even if they were to live in the outskirts of a ruined district). So Michael's mother and father called an old friend and gained new work. Work that let his parents travel to many different sectors of the moon. On rare occasions they travelled off worlds and on even rarer occasions Michael was permitted to go with them. He was unsure whether or not the man on the phone was his parents' friend. Either way the man obviously knew his father as he called her by her first name, Vicky. It didn't take long before he gave his mother what he wanted. He allowed Michael's mother and father to stay for his birthday but would have to leave as soon as possible. Vicky and her husband, Dave, had left the night after Michael's tenth birthday. They hadn't come home.

From his bed he could see out the window. On the other side of the large glass porthole was, clear as day, Earth in all her beauty. The only other times he saw Earth were on transport crafts or on the few instances he had access to a roof so that he could see above the districts warehouses or the next city's skyscrapers. Here the circular shape of the world fit perfectly within the circular frame of the window. He always wanted to see Earth closer. He figured that when he was old enough he could join the UNSC and fly there. The UNSC intrigued him but it was Earth that he really wanted. He could picture its pristine beauties: the divine and glowing waterfalls, wild and flourishing gardens, endless hot deserts. On Luna the furthest the ecology evolved was the occasional synthetic grass patch for the wealthy and lots of golden sand and mudbrick for the districts even poorer than this one. This moon was nothing compared to Earth. He could picture it, he and his parents posing for a camera in front of the famous Chicago fountains. Just thinking about Earth made him miss his parents.

Michael rolled over and pulled the bed covers over his shoulders. It was nearing 11:30pm Lunar Standard Time. Physically he should never have been tired, but he was virtually buzzing after all the 'Poppy-shots' he'd consumed over the course of the day. He brushed his hand through his short brown hair and ruffled it. He'd wondered if it would feel similar to the way it did when his father did it to him. It didn't. Michael began to think his parents alien compared to him. He didn't recognise them as much anymore. He loved them to death and they loved him back, but there was something different about them. Before Michael had thought he'd known every detail about his parents, and they took an interest in listening to him. When Michael turned eight his mother and father became more reserved. The young boy looked up again at the clock beside his bed. Not a minute had passed since he had last looked upon it. It was easy to hate how quick the mind worked. Time never moved as slow as it did when you were thinking philosophically, Michael reminded himself. Beyond the clock sat a photo of his family and beyond that a phone, also on his bedside table. The photo had been taken many years ago when they still lived in the city. An emergency evacuation craft was running drills that day and it landed as the photo was taken. His mother's hair washed over her face and his father was on the verge of falling over. Michael himself appeared fine and was laughing at the hilarity of the moment. He often stared at the picture to reminisce the better days in life. His phone however, he rarely used that. He didn't have many friends in Washington. But the house's landline connected to all of the phones in the building. All morning and afternoon he had been getting calls. It was odd to receive so man and he wondered if they'd ever stop. In the end Michael was forced to gather food from the fridge as well as a blanket and pillow from his room before retreating into the attic. And there the boy had spent the day spending the hours categorising which food products to eat first (as the ones requiring refrigeration logically had to be eaten first) and throwing a bouncy ball at the wall. Most families had to eat grainy potato mash and brown lettuce. His parents worked extra hard to give Michael better food. In time, he'd run out of rations in the attic and be forced to stealthily navigate downstairs to gather more resources. Ultimately he had to leave the basement eventually.

Tonight he stared at the phone and wondered if it would start ringing. But it didn't. He began to stare for long periods of times at it, hoping by some strange reason it would begin ringing at his command. By late in the eleventh hour a loud chime echoed through the house. Michael jumped and fell off his bed, hitting his head on the floor. For some time he remained disorientated and tried to regain a sensible state of mind. What the hell was that? He asked himself. He stood and looked through the window. Next door a black truck had stopped. Two suited figures were ringing Miss Maybelle's doorbell. Then Michael reached a conclusion, of course sound travelled further at night so it must have been the neighbours doorbell.

Michael dusted himself off and picked up the pillow which had followed him off the bed. As he was brushing it off (and after he realised how unnecessary brushing a clean pillow was) a second chime was heard. It was undoubtedly coming from his house.

He stood, fearing for his life. A rush of thoughts flooded through his head. They're here. Who is here? Does it matter? Whoever's here wants me dead! Maybe it's the murderer! What if it's the men from the city looking for the rent? Why can't Mum and Dad be here? Why can't they be here to help me defend this place?

He rushed for the door of his room and poked his head around to the left of the door frame. There was no one in the house, he had a clear view of the stairs. At the end of the stairs was the front door. A small stained glass work of art prevented a clear image of the person on the other side, regardless their silhouettes were clear enough. Michael watched for a moment and used his right hand to feel around for anything he could use for a weapon. Not only could he not find anything, but he couldn't afford to take his eyes off the door. Then his hand grasped a cold and slender metal rod. It wasn't clear what the item was, but it felt strong enough to break a person's nose. The second he picked up the metal rod the silhouettes behind the stained glass faded from existence, retreating into the cold and dark of the night. Probably sensing their imminent deaths, Michael joked. He sank onto the ground and let go of his weapon. The weapon wasn't a rod at all, but an old metal bed-head lamp. That was unlikely to break a man's nose, but it didn't matter because the attacker was gone.

Then the doorbell rang again.

"Oh God!" Michael whimpered under his breath. He turned around again to see more silhouettes out the front of the door. They must know someone's home or they'd have given up already, he thought to himself. Fuelled with adrenaline he began to move downstairs quietly but quickly, and unarmed. But on the fourth step the wood beneath his feet creaked. The moan of the wood was so heavy he felt the vibrations through feet despite the thick winter socks he was wearing.

At the base of the stairs he decided to duck quietly into the kitchen to his right, it was there that he felt safe. From there he couldn't see the window above the door and thus neither could the people on the other side. He was safe here, this was his safe room. He wondered if for a moment it could be his parents. Unlikely, usually they had keys on them. But just in case, Michael decided not to arm himself with a knife.

"Hello? We know someone's in there!" called a man behind the window. He began banging on the window. Surely he didn't know, Michael assured himself. He couldn't, how could he?

"Come out here, please. It's cold, and we just need to talk." Another man was talking now. A different one. It definitely wasn't his Mum and Dad calling.

It then became Michael's mission to get to the lounge. There it was comfortable, there he could sleep without being too frightened. His logic was greatly flawed and made not the slightest bit of sense. So Michael, despite realising how ridiculous the idea was continued to approach the door. Upon arriving at the window he knelt and began to waddle into the lounge. He was well hidden from the window. The lounge sat on the other side of the door and to the left of the stairs if one was looking down.

The couch became his resting spot for the following hour – or what felt like an hour. A blanket that had been draped over it became his best friend. Its warmth reminded him of the familiarity of his parents and comforted him instead of letting him miss them. But sure enough, he was awoken again. This time he was awoken by a car horn. Surely they'd wake the whole neighbourhood, Michael thought. If they were murderers though, they wouldn't want any witnesses. Therefore this must be something else. It must have been an emergency!

Immediately Michael rushed to the door and swung it open, and immediately regretted it…

"Are you Michael Crespo?" one of the suited men asked. There were two outside the door and another two by the truck out the front of Miss Maybelle's house. He had to think quick, but not reveal anything in case this was a scam.

"Why? Who's asking?"

The man who had already spoken to him lifted a square sheet of paper. Printed on it were two photos. They were passport photos of a man and a woman. His mother and father.

"Are these your parents, son?" They were. But how could he respond. What did they want of him?

"No, I've never seen those two in my entire life." Michael responded. But the words he spoke revealed the truth. It was an obvious lie. The man who held the photos turned to the man behind him. The man in the back gave him two more pieces of paper. Each had photos on them.

Before looking at the photos Michael turned his gaze to the truck. Printed on the side were the words _Crisium City Authorities_. But the man in front of him, who was holding the other photos shook the pages. Michael's gaze returned to the photos. They were off people, people who were unfamiliar, people who were definitely alien – yet people who he knew all the same. The bodies were the blackened remains of two people. One figure, a bald man had been split in two from the chest to the waist in a diagonal line. Fire was still burning his ankles when the photo was taken. He was dead. The other figure was also laying face down, patches off her hair had been seared off and much of her skin had become a liquid. They were his parents.

A bubble of vomit made it's way up his throat. He gagged and began coughing violently. He fought fiercely to swallow it back down and succeeded. Though upon saving himself humiliation he began crying. He couldn't take it. They were his parents. _His_ parents, not anyone else's but his.

"We have our boy." The man who held the photos say. But when Michael looked up at him he realised his vision was blurred by the tears. He blinked out enough of the drops to see what was happening and saw the man's hand lean in to grab Michael's collar.

He ducked and dodged the hand, stepping back into the comfort of the house. The man reached in again, still knelt down. Michael grabbed for the door handle and threw it towards his attacker. The door followed the handle and crashed heavily into the man's temple rendering him unconscious.

Michael tried to run and began to move upstairs. He heard a crash behind him, turning he saw the bigger man – the man at the back – kick the door in before chasing after Michael. In under a second the man had grabbed the boy's colour and waistband. He was thrown in the air and felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Everything moved so fast that when Michael blinked next he had about two seconds of clarity. He was thrown through the air into the back of the truck and as the floor of the container met his face he returned to sleep. A long and unsatisfying sleep.


End file.
